


Sparks

by Findswoman



Series: The Lasan Series [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Ashla, Crystals, Force Sensitivity, Gen, Lasan, Lasat, Lasat Rituals, Lasat Shamanism, Minerals, Pre-Siege of Lasan, Pre-Star Wars: Rebels, Sparks, magical girl, mining, strontium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:53:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22988194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findswoman/pseuds/Findswoman
Summary: While working in the mines during school break, a shy kit from a mining town on Lasan discovers powers she did not know she had.
Series: The Lasan Series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/967674
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the OC Revolution [Summer/Fall 2019 challenge](https://boards.theforce.net/posts/55872711) at the Jedi Council Forums. The challenge was to write a character's origin story.

The small town of Flowstone Vale, nestled at the edge of the Gosrrallan Mountains of Lasan’s mid-northern continent some twenty-five klicks southeast of the capital of Lira Zel, was proud of its mining heritage. While by no means the largest, it was one of the planet’s oldest mining settlements, dating from the arrival of the earliest settlers from Lira San. Even after millennia the Flowstone Vale mines were among Lasan’s richest sources of copper, strontium, and quorodium ore. Virtually everyone in town was employed by the mine in one way or another, whether in the mines themselves or in mining administration or research. Even the Royal Lasat Mining Ministry boasted several high-ranking officials hailing from “the jewel of the Gosrral.”  
  
Even the kits of Flowstone Vale took part in their hometown’s mining industry. From the age of twelve dust seasons, every kit would spend most of the interseason school break periods working at the mine. The younger kits started with lighter tasks in the above-ground part of the complex, such as sorting and cleaning the ore or repairing miners’ tools and equipment. Older kits, once they had experience in these above-ground tasks, would assist with routine extraction and hauling underground. Although these tasks were performed by machines and droids most of the time, it was considered essential for the young Lasat of the village to learn them, both to instruct them in the fundamentals of the mining trade and to foster in them an appreciation of their local heritage. And the kits of Flowstone Vale, in turn, looked forward to their shifts each interseason: for them it was a chance to build toughness, show off their skills, and take a step toward adulthood.

* * *

It was the first day of the growing season–harvest season interim. An orange-gold sun hung low in the sky, casting a flamelike glow on the buildings and headframes of the mine complex. On the terrace outside Ore Processing Unit Aurek-Two, the newest group of kits were gathering. A few were still taking their leave of their parents, who hovered nearby with instructions and reminders, but most were talking or laughing or playing loudly with each other. The unit foreman, a wiry, blue-gray-furred Lasat male in gray coveralls with a large metal whistle hanging around his neck, stood on the steps of the long, squat, metal-walled building, glancing at the regulation chronotower atop the administration office a few buildings down. Two other miners, in the same coveralls, walked about with databoards taking attendance.  
  
At the back of the group a slight, pretty girl-kit with lilac fur stood quietly by herself, fidgeting with one of her two long, dark braids. She had arrived before any of the others, for her father was a foreman elsewhere in the mine, and her mother worked in the mining ministry in Lira Zel. Occasionally she would glance nervously around her, at the mine buildings, the chronotower, the other kits, and the unit foreman. The foreman’s assistant stopped and eyed her quizzically as he walked by taking attendance.  
  
“You’re Trilasha’s daughter, aren’t ya?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” came the meek reply.  
  
“First name?”  
  
“Shulma.”  
  
“Shulma,” the assistant repeated, marking it down on his databoard, and moved on.  
  
Presently the electronic chimes of the chronotower began signaling 0700, and the foreman blew a shrill blast on his whistle. The kits quieted and followed him into Unit Aurek-Two; the last few parents said their goodbyes and departed. Shulma, the lilac-furred girl with the braids, still hung at the back of the group, half-hiding behind a group of tall boys. Once they had all assembled in the vestibule of the building, the foreman addressed them.  
  
“ALL RIGHT, LISTEN UP! Just a few things before we get started. Today you’re gonna be separating ore from the base rock and sending it over to Unit Besh-Two for crushing and cleaning. So, first thing you’re gonna do is go over there”—he gestured to a rack at one side of the room crammed with aprons and other protective gear in the same gray as his coveralls—“and put on your aprons and foot covers. Then you go inside, go to one of the stations, and the distribution belt will bring you the yield from the last extraction. Your job’s easy: use your vibrochisels to cut the ore out of the host rock, throw it in its correct collection basket, and toss the host rock into the waste cart. Now how do you know which is which?”  
  
The foreman tapped his databoard. A full-color, high-resolution holoprojection materialized high on the wall, showing rotating chunks of different types of ore—copper, lead, tin, strontium, quorodium. These, he said, were the metals most likely to turn up in this morning’s yield from shafts 38 and 39. He detailed the physical qualities of each, covering color, texture, hardness, and conductivity; he explained how to tell apart those that could be easily confused with others. Shulma listened closely, trying to keep it all straight in her mind as she craned her neck to see.  
  
“Got any questions?” the foreman asked at last.  
  
No one did.  
  
“You’re Lasat miners now. And as Lasat miners you gotta do your job right. All the ore has to go into the collection baskets, and all the host rock goes into the waste cart. An’ that means _all_ of it. Now Trothidd, Gondrav, an’ I are gonna come around to check on you all. You better not let us see any ore pieces bigger than a claw tip in the waste cart, or any host rock pieces bigger than a claw tip in any of the baskets. And don’t you _dare_ let us see _anyone_ slacking off. Otherwise you’ll find yourself staying after to scrub down the counters and belts. And your parents know it. Got that?”  
  
Various half-hearted sounds of assent went up from the kits, including a barely audible “yes, sir” from Shulma.  
  
“An’ another thing. When I tell you to do somethin’, the _only_ correct answer is ‘Yes, Foreman Novalos.’ Understood?”  
  
“Yes, Foreman Novalos,” chorused the kits.  
  
“Good! Now get your gear on and get to work!”

* * *

Now suited up in their aprons and foot covers, the kits began filing into the main workspace of Ore Processing Unit Aurek-Two. At one end of the room, the old mechanical distribution apparatus hung on the wall and ceiling above a low metal rolling door. The door opened, and in trundled a large mine cart, heaped with rock chunks. At once the distribution apparatus sprang into operation, clanking and rumbling as it scooped the rock chunks from the cart onto distribution belts that took them around the room and deposited them in the collection bins on the counters that lined the room.  
  
The kits got to work. Shulma, feeling unsure of herself amid the noise and chaos, took a spot in the far corner of the room, farthest from the distribution apparatus and as separate as possible from any other kits. She sat on the stool that was there, took a piece of rock from her collection bin, and examined it. It was formed almost entirely of dull gray host rock except for one knobby corner of bronze-colored material—probably either quorodium ore or one of the copper ores, from what Foreman Novalos had told them. She ran her finger over it to feel its texture—  
  
—and twitched with a gasp as a yellow spark shot up from under her finger. She glanced quickly around; fortunately Foreman Novalos and his two assistants were in another part of the room.  
  
Well, Foreman Novalos had said that some ore types had a tendency to pick up a static charge under the right conditions, and it was a dry day, after all. Shulma picked up the vibrochisel and got to work, picking away at the edge of the knob of ore until it was fully and cleanly separated from the rest of the rock. Even with the sparking, she had been able to tell from its very jagged crystalline texture that it was one of the copper ores.  
  
Shulma picked up the ore chunk to throw it into the basket for copper. As she did, several yellow sparks shot up. She shuddered and yelped slightly as she dropped the rock back on the table, her fingers twitching with shock.  
  
What was happening? This wasn’t just static charge or dry air—that much Shulma could tell—but what was it? She looked at some of the other kits at the sorting counters nearby. They were all working through piles of the same kind of ore—and none of it was sparking.  
  
She put a fingertip on the ore piece on the table, watched another tiny glint arise, and took her finger off again. It reminded her a bit of an old fairy story her mother liked to tell her: the story of Bright Valthya, who had lightning in her touch and could command the Sacred Light from the very stones on the ground. Of course, she knew it couldn’t be anything like that. She was just little Shulma Trilasha of Flowstone Vale.  
  
Once again she glanced about. The foremen had still not noticed her, but they were making their rounds: Trothidd walking down the rows with his hands clasped behind him, Gondrav helping one boy hold his vibrochisel properly, Novalos berating another who had accidentally put all his tin ore in his quorodium basket. They would soon be nearby. She simply had to go on with her work.  
  
Quickly, but gingerly, Shulma began sorting through the collection bin for another rock piece. First she looked for one that was all or mostly host rock and tossed it in the waste cart that stood behind her, between her row of counters and the next. She found another similar piece and did the same—then another and another. After that she found no others, so she looked to see if she could find at least a different kind of ore, in case that would make a difference and not shock her. But virtually all the rocks in her bin contained the same kind of copper ore, and even as she sifted through them sparks flew up and stung her fingers.  
  
It was only at the very bottom of the bin that she found a rock that looked different from the others. It was large, part milky-chalky white, part brilliant, light blue crystal; she recognized it from Novalos’s introduction as strontium ore. She craned closer to admire it and take in its beauty. What Lasat did not know strontium: the mineral that flowed in their blood, that beat in their hearts, that gave the soil and mountains their hues of blue and purple! She reached for it—  
  
—and multiple bolts of crackling golden energy sprang up to envelop both her hands. Electric pain coursed upward through her fingers, through her arm, and through her whole body. A blinding white-gold-iridescent blaze exploded like a supernova into her vision, engulfing everything around her.  
  
_Three Lasat-shaped figures emerged from the light: a strongman with a spear, a comical dancer leaping and laughing, a tiny kit reaching skyward. From different directions they ran toward each other, colliding and merging into a single, large, magnificent figure—_  
  
_—who had bright leaf-green eyes and the brightest, handsomest smile Shulma had ever seen—_  
  
A searing ache shot through Shulma’s head, from one temple to the other and back again. She felt herself crying out, dropping the piece of ore, collapsing onto the counter...  
  
...and then nothing.

* * *

Shulma jolted awake with a shriek as rough hands shook her, pulled her from her stool, and spun her around. Foreman Novalos scowled down at her through angry amber eyes.  
  
“Well, well,” he growled. “Won’t Trilasha be charmed to learn how his little girl was slackin’ off on her _very first shift!_ ”  
  
“But Foreman Novalos—please—”  
  
“None of your _buts!_ You think I’m gonna listen to your silly excuses?! YOUR HEAD WAS ON THE COUNTER!”  
  
“Please, Foreman Novalos—”  
  
“You’ll be stayin’ after to scrub down those counters and belts and baskets, y’hear?!”  
  
“Yes, Foreman Novalos…”  
  
“Now get back to work!” He shook her loose. “Karkin’ _incompetent_ lot of kits they give me!”  
  
He stomped off, grumbling. Shulma cast a wistful glance at the beautiful blue-purple piece of strontium ore, now lying on the floor. She didn’t dare pick it up. Instead she returned to her counter and her collection bin, her head still aching and tears welling in her eyes.

* * *

Later that afternoon, all the other kits had gone home. Shulma was left all alone to clean the work surfaces in Ore Processing Unit Aurek-Two—the countertops, the distribution belts, the collection bins, the sorting baskets, and even—“for making excuses”—the large central cart that had brought the rock pieces up from the shafts, which now stood empty on its length of track at the end of the room.  
  
Wistful tears flowed as she worked. Her very first shift at the mine, and what a silly mess she had made of it! All because her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she had just _had_ to mess about with that piece of strontium! Shouldn’t she just have left it alone after seeing even what just the copper ore could do to her hands? At least, she thought with bitter relief, the rock dust and dirt that remained on the counters and belts didn’t seem to be producing any unusual effects. She paused from scrubbing a collection bin to look out the window, where the sun was just beginning to sink in an orange haze behind the mountaintops. By this time she had thought she would be home like the other kits, supping with Mama and Papa and the boys and cheerfully recounting all the things that had happened on her first-ever mine shift—an occasion that was supposed to be a happy one, or at least a novel and exciting one, for a kit of Flowstone Vale.  
  
Every so often Novalos would come in to inspect her work (lest she be so bold as to slack off on him again). So far he had at least found nothing to complain about outright, but his scowl seemed craggier and angrier with each visit, and whenever he left he would mutter something about being kept beyond his usual quitting time. Shulma glanced up at the chrono on the wall; he would probably be coming in again soon, and as she was almost done with this row of counters. If she at least got started on the central cart, he would see that she wasn’t being lazy.  
  
Once she had finished the row, she rinsed the scrub brushes and cleaning cloths and returned them to either the appropriate supply bin or the soiled cloth hamper. Then, from a hook on the wall near the distribution apparatus, she took a long-handled tool with a metal-bristled suction-brush at one end and a broad, flat vibroscraper blade at the other, and brought it over to the central cart.  
  
The cart was immense, almost as tall as she was, and she craned over to look inside; its inner walls were coated with musty rock dust, and the bottom and lower edges of the sides were thickly crusted with gray-white mineral deposits. As Novalos had instructed her, she as to first use the vibroscraper to break up the heavier deposits, then dust the sides and clean up all the residue with the suction-brush end.  
  
With some difficulty, she reached the long tool into the cart with the scraper end touching the built-up mineral crust on the cart bottom, then activated the vibroscraper and began chipping away. Masses of fierce yellow sparks flew up with each strike, climbing higher and higher up the metal handle even as the crust crumbled and broke—  
  
—and Shulma could have sworn that the cart moved.  
  
Wait, that couldn’t be; wasn’t its brake set? All the brakes of all the waste carts were set; certainly this one was, too? It had to be just her imagination. Sparks or no sparks, she simply had to keep working.  
  
She struck at the mineral crust again, and several things happened at once.  
  
A fountain of yellow lightning shot up around the handle of the scraper. The cart lurched forward on its track with such violence that Shulma was pulled off her feet and thrown into it head first, directly into the golden blaze.  
  
And the cart continued rolling, through the open rolling door, into the shaft, picking up speed…  
  
“NO!” Shulma screamed. But it was too late. Cart, kit, and scraper, all suffused in masses of yellow lightning, were now careering at full speed downward into the shaft. All Shulma could do was hang onto the scraping tool for dear life as the wild motion knocked and battered her against the sides of the cart. She clenched her eyes shut against the unrelenting pain, the building brilliance—  
  
_—for it was not a dark mine tunnel that she was hurtling through but a fiery maze of gold-orange stardust blended with blinding, color-changing light. Twisting, turning, jolting, pitching, swerving—where to?—_  
  
—until everything crashed to a halt, to darkness and cold.  
  
_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosrrallan Mountains, the Gosrral: Fanon, the latter being both the region where the former mountain range is located and another name for the mountain range. Named after the historic mining town of [Goslar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Goslar) in Lower Saxony, Germany, on the northwestern slopes of the Harz Mountains.  
>   
> Quorodium: Completely fictitious.  
>   
> Novalos: Named after the German Romantic poet Novalis (Georg Philipp Friedrich Freiherr von Hardenberg, 1772–1801), whose university studies centered on mineralogy and who worked as a mining official.  
>   
> Bright Valthya: Fanon.  
>   
> Strontium ore: I’m thinking here of the bluish crystalline variety called [celestine](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Celestine_\(mineral\)) (or celestite). According to our [Lasat fanon post](https://boards.theforce.net/posts/54401430), copper and strontium are responsible for the purplish rock and soil found in many parts of Lasan; I took a bit of a leap from that and put it in Lasat blood, too, perhaps functioning the way iron does in ours.


	2. Chapter 2

Some time later, after a good bit of searching, Foreman Novalos found the little long-braided kit lying unconscious, bruised, and shivering in the mine cart somewhere deep in shaft 38. With a sigh and a few grumbled oaths he felt for her pulse and breath, then checked her over for bruises and fractures following the usual first-aid protocol. Nothing was broken, but there were a few bruises on her arms, feet, and face, which he treated with bacta salve from his portable medkit.  
  
This done, Novalos hoisted Shulma onto one shoulder and carried her back up to his office in the main ore processing plant. Then he put in a call to his colleague Over-Foreman Ormgar Trilasha of the Southern Ridge Shafts, who was already off for the day, and told him all that had happened. Since he and his family lived not too far from the mining complex, Ormgar agreed to come collect his daughter. He laid her across the back seat of the Trilasha family’s old X-29 speeder and drove her home.  
  
Shulma came to with a jolt during the speeder ride, trembling and aching from her recent ordeal. “You all right?” her father grunted as soon as he heard her moving around.  
  
“Yeah...”  
  
“Good. You went a long way down. I keep tellin’ the admin they need to check the brakes on those things more often.”  
  
“Er… I guess...” Shulma was too tired and achy to argue the point beyond that, and neither father nor daughter said anything more the rest of the ride.  
  
Dusk was well advanced when they arrived home. The family had already finished its evening meal, and some remnants of it had been left out on the table in case Shulma wanted anything, but she was still cold and achy and not at all hungry. As soon as they saw she had arrived, her older twin brothers—some four dust seasons her senior and already doing some work underground—ran up to her, teasing and jostling her.  
  
“Heard you _got in trouble_ today, little sis.”  
  
“Yeah, had to scrub off the belts on your first day, did ya?”  
  
Shulma turned her head away, feeling too weak to reply. “You two leave her alone,” scolded Ormgar, as he shooed his sons away and took his daughter upstairs to her small attic room, straight to bed.  
  
Shulma pulled her covers around her. She tried to sleep, but her head still ached, her body still shook, and the world around her still seemed to swim and toss and turn. Images—perhaps snatches of dreams, she wasn’t sure—kept flitting at random across her consciousness. Every time she closed her eyes and tried to relax, _something_ would burst in on her mind’s eye: the ore processing workroom, Foreman Novalos, the mine cart—but also her parents and brothers and other Lasats she knew, other places she had been, from the quiet streets of Flowstone Vale to the majestic purplestone cliffs and caves of the Gosrral. _And those three strange figures running and colliding… the leaf-green eyes… the fiery tunnel of gold-orange light…_  
  
 _And everywhere, through all of it, those golden sparks. Sparks, everywhere sparks..._  
  
Shulma shifted and reached for the doll that lay in its own little doll bed on her bedside table. It was her favorite doll, dressed in the gown and cloak of an ancient sage-maiden, with long hair and jewel-like golden-green eyes that really opened and closed. She hugged it close and sighed.  
  
Just then she heard a gentle knock at the door, and a familiar voice: “May I come in?”  
  
“Yes, of course.”  
  
Shulma shifted to sitting upright as her mother entered the room. Yokheva Barzellati Trilasha, chief of operations at the Royal Lasat Mining Ministry, wore eyeglasses and a necklace of large, rough, variegated quartz beads; her black-purple hair was done up in a high bun, and a few strands of dark silver-gray wisped near her ears. She sat down on the bed beside her daughter and learned over to give her a kiss on the brow ridge.  
  
“How are you feeling, little gem?” she asked.  
  
“I don’t know… still kind of… funny. And tired.”  
  
Her mother stroked her cheek affectionately. “I don’t blame you,” she said. “You’ve had a long day. But please tell me: what happened, exactly?” Shulma shuddered, but Yokheva reassured her with a hand to her shoulder. “No, please don’t worry, love. You’re not in trouble.”  
  
“Er, all right, but—”  
  
“And yes, I know what the foreman said. But I don’t believe him. I’ve never known you to be lazy. So won’t you please tell me what happened? As best as you remember?”  
  
Shulma took a deep breath in and told her mother everything that had happened from the start. She told her of the way the sparks flew up when she first handled the copper ore, the vision of the merging figures that overtook her when she picked up the strontium, everything she saw and felt during her wild ride in the mine cart, and the pains and sparks and images that even now kept popping into her consciousness to keep her from relaxing. Yokheva listened closely to every detail, occasionally nodding. When at the end of the tale she sat silent in thought for several moments, her daughter asked:  
  
“Do you believe me, Mama?”  
  
“Yes, of course I do.”  
  
“Even about all the… weird stuff I saw?”  
  
“Even that,” Yokheva chuckled slightly.  
  
“Do you know… what happened? What it’s all about?”  
  
“Well… I have a guess. Give me a moment and I’ll be right back.”  
  
Yokheva kissed her daughter’s brow ridge again, then got up and left the room. She returned several moments later with a small, worn, leather-bound book in her hands, through which she paged intently as she seated herself once again on the bed. Shulma craned her head to get a better look at it, but the title embossed on its cover was in an old-fashioned script she couldn’t read.  
  
“What is that, Mama?” she asked.  
  
“Oh, it belonged to your great-great grandmother Shatha Dzenkachi, on my mother’s mother’s side,” Yokheva replied, still paging through.  
  
Shulma perked up, recognizing the name of a forebear her mother had spoken of many times before—one who had had the gift of the Ashla and been a shaman of Lasan. But she was puzzled, too: why look in some great-great-grandmother’s musty old books for advice on how to help a regular twelve-dust-season-old girl-kit? Weren’t there other books in the house about remedies and the like? Like, for instance, that herb guide her parents had consulted that time she had eaten a whole basket of unripe maznaberries...  
  
“Mama, what exactly _is_ this book? What are you looking for?”  
  
Her mother looked up and leaned a little closer. “Well, Lasats who have the Ashla are sometimes prone to something called vision shock, and—”  
  
“ _Ashla?!_ ” Shulma’s eyes and mouth gaped in alarm. “But Mama, I’m not—I’m just—how can I—”  
  
“Hush, little gem, don’t be upset! That will only make it worse!”  
  
“But _vision shock?!_ That sounds _terrible!_ Am I going to be _all right?!_ ”  
  
“Of course you’ll be all right!” Her mother moved closer and put an arm around her. “All it really means is that you’ve had some visions that have disturbed you and thrown your Ashla currents out of balance. That’s why you’re feeling so strange right now. Once we calm your currents back down, according to this, it should go away.”  
  
“But I mean, all that stuff in the ore room, and in the cart... was all that really the Ashla? As in, real visions? Like the kind the ancient prophetesses used to have?”  
  
Yokheva shrugged. “Why on Lasan shouldn’t it be? Great-Gran Shatha always used to say her talent was bound to come back into the family sometime. Look, let’s get you back to sleep so you can be well and energetic when you go in tomorrow.” Shulma’s face fell at this. “I know, I know it’s no fun. But for now just do your best. It’ll take some time for us to figure out what to do next, and in the meantime all we can do is carry on.”  
  
“All right, Mama,” her daughter sighed.  
  
“It says here that it can help to hear familiar sounds or voices… how about I read to you a bit? Maybe some stories from _Tales of the Ancients?_ ”  
  
“Sure, sounds good.”  
  
So Shulma lay back on her pillow, snuggling down under her covers and hugging her doll close, while her mother read her tale after tale from the beloved storybook: the origin of the heavenly bodies, the birth of the gems in the mountains, the founding of Lira Zel and the contest of its four warrior-rulers, the romance of Rolmvar the Rugged and Radiant Lalma, and of course her old favorite, the story of Bright Valthya. As her mother’s warm voice and familiar words washed over her, Shulma felt herself calming, her aches and dizziness melting away. But questions and worries still crept into her mind. Did she really have Ashla powers like her great-great-grandmother did? What did that really mean? Was it dangerous? What if others found out? And would any of it even matter when she went back to work at the mine tomorrow?  
  
But the warmth and calm soon won out, and she fell into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

The next morning found Shulma back at the counter in Ore Processing Unit Aurek-Two, clad in the regulation apron and foot covers. This time she was not in the corner of the plant, apart from the others; Novalos had placed her toward the middle of the central counter, among several other kits (“to keep an eye on ya,” he had muttered). She had pulled her collection bin close to her and was looking over its contents as closely as she could without touching them. This time there was a good deal of tin ore mixed in with the copper ore; she hadn’t had any tin ore the day before and didn’t know how it would react to her touch.  
  
Gingerly she picked up a piece. A few small sparks went up, and she felt a tiny, momentary shock, but nothing more. So far so good—she could work with that. She even wondered if things were getting easier for her already, after recovering from last night’s vision shock...  
  
To be sure, she also picked up a piece of rock streaked with veins of copper ore. Just as before, violent yellow sparks erupted, and she dropped the rock in pain back into the bin. That answered her question, of course. At least she didn’t see any strontium—or not yet. The bin was very full, and anything could be in it.  
  
An idea formed in Shulma’s mind. She leaned over to the kit at the neighboring station, a girl with pigtails and medium-dark purple-blue fur, who was busy cutting a large, shiny piece of copper ore from its host rock.  
  
“Hey, Ninqua, can I ask you something?”  
  
The pigtailed girl looked up from her work. “Yeah, what is it?”  
  
Shulma pushed her collection bin closer to her neighbor. “Would you, er, like to take my copper pieces?”  
  
“Um, okay, why?”  
  
“Er… well… they’ve been hurting my hands.”  
  
“Weird, are you allergic?”  
  
“Well, um—”  
  
“Back to work, you two,” barked Trothidd, who had just come alongside them in his regular rounds.  
  
“Y-yes, Foreman Trothidd,” said both girls almost simultaneously. Shulma breathed a sigh of relief as she picked up a rock piece and began to work on it, but no sooner was Trothidd out of earshot than Ninqua spoke again.  
  
“I guess it’s a lilac-fur thing. My auntie’s a lilac-fur, too.”  
  
“Oh...?”  
  
“Yeah. And she can’t wear any jewelry without breaking out in blotches.”  
  
“Er, sure…” replied Shulma, then, rapidly changing the subject: “And can I take your tin pieces? Because they, er, don’t hurt as much.”  
  
“Yeah, sure, I guess.” Ninqua moved her collection bin closer to Shulma’s. “Here, take whatever you want.”  
  
“Thanks, Ninqua.”  
  
“No problem.”  
  
This arrangement served them well the rest of the day. Both girls took pieces of rock from both collection bins. Shulma worked on the tin ore pieces, which gave her nothing worse than tiny sparks and mild static twinges; she always made sure to work facing partly away from Ninqua, so that the other girl wouldn’t see her hands. Ninqua, in turn, happily took all the pieces that looked like they contained copper ore. Novalos came by to inspect them as usual, side-eying Shulma hard, but ultimately passed on with a grunt when he noticed her calmly and unobtrusively at work.  
  
They did the same the day after and the day after, and the day after that, and all was well. This way Shulma had no more of the troublesome flare-ups or visions, and definitely no vision shock—only a few of the tiny sparks and tingles that were at least easy to hide. The foremen still came by on their regular rounds, but they didn’t seem to notice or care that the two girls were sharing bins, as long as the job was getting done. Even Novalos seemed to grudgingly acknowledge that the troublemaker of the first day might actually be turning into a productive little worker.  
  
At the end of each day Ormgar Trilasha would come by the ore plant after his own shift to pick up his daughter and take her home. He would ask her desultory questions about her workday and she would answer them in an equally desultory manner, never mentioning the sparks. But her mother always checked in with her later, at bedtime, when they were alone. Shulma told her everything, and she would always listen closely and take note. Yokheva further confided to her daughter that she was trying to arrange for a meeting with one of the master-shamans who governed the academy on Mount Straga, who might better be able to assess her situation. It was difficult because of their very full schedule teaching the younger shamans and being called on for spiritual purposes, but she resolved to keep trying, for Shulma’s sake. Shulma looked forward every day to that meeting, though neither she nor her mother knew when it would be.  
  
One day later that week, toward quitting time, when the western sky was just starting to glow a brighter, lazier purple-gold, Shulma and Ninqua were working at their stations as usual. Their collection bins were close to empty and their sorting baskets nearly full, and as usual they had pooled their supply: Shulma took everything that would be less volatile for her, and Ninqua took the rest. At the bottom of Ninqua’s bin were several chunks of a bright silver-gray crystal that looked like the tin ore Shulma had been extracting most of the day. But when she reached over to scoop them up, such a huge shock of golden lightning erupted from her hands that she shrieked and nearly fell over backward. Surprised, Ninqua dropped her vibrochisel, her eyes and mouth gaping.  
  
“Oh ’bast! Shulma!”  
  
“N-ninqua…” Shulma felt herself shaking as she realized what had happened. Those rocks were actually one of the rarer, less conspicuous forms of strontium ore—which had broken into even smaller pieces at her touch—and there was no way her neighbor could not have seen the sparks that had flown up as a result.  
  
“You’ve got the _gift,_ don’t you!”  
  
“Shhh! N-not so loud!”  
  
But it was too late. Foreman Novalos was already looming over them, scowling, arms tightly crossed. “Oi! What’s all this din?!”  
  
“Er… um… well…” Shulma felt herself shaking more violently now. She looked down at her hands; even though she had dropped the strontium crystals, tiny sparks were still dancing at her fingertips. She clapped one hand over the other in a desperate attempt to quell or hide them, but to no effect.  
  
Before she could say anything coherent, Ninqua piped up. “Shulma’s got the _gift,_ Foreman Novalos!”  
  
“ _Gift?!_ What are you talkin’ about?!”  
  
“Look what she can do to the ore crystals!”  
  
“N-ninqua, p-please—” More trembling and harder, more sparks and brighter—and the other kits and foremen were now gathered around, watching.  
  
“And you been doin’ _what_ to the crystals?!” The foreman noticed the broken rock pieces in Ninqua’s bin and spun to face Shulma with a ferocious glare. “Playin’ instead of doin’ your work, eh? An’ _not even in your own—_ ” He stopped short as his gaze fell on the yellow sparks that now crackled almost uncontrollably around her hands. “What. The Bogan. Is _this?!_ ”  
  
He grabbed her hand to look closer—then let out a bloodcurdling screamed oath as the shock of the sparks threw him backward to stagger against the counter in a daze. Shulma shrieked and drew back, tears springing up in her eyes as she saw what had happened. Around her, the other kits were gasping and murmuring among themselves. The two assistant foremen ran up. Gondrav helped Novalos to a stool at the far end of the room, while Trothidd grabbed Shulma by the shoulder and hustled her away, trembling and weeping.  
  
“Please—I’m really sorry—” she sobbed. “I didn’t mean—really—”  
  
Trothidd snorted as he pulled her into the vestibule of Unit Aurek-Two. “You can tell that to your pa when he gets here,” he snarled.  
  
Just then the sound of a throat clearing made the foreman spin around. Before him, staring him unflappably down through bespectacled emerald eyes, was a distinguished-looking Lasat woman. She had lilac fur like that of the kit whose shoulder he was still gripping, and her long, brightly colored suit-dress was adorned not only with a necklace of large quartz beads but also the insignia of the Royal Lasat Mining Ministry.  
  
“Is there a problem?”  
  
 _to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over-Foreman: A slightly clunky literal translation of the German title _Obersteiger,_ one of the foreman ranks in the mining hierarchy of the pre-industrial German-speaking lands. An _Obersteiger_ was set over several _Untersteiger_ who each supervised workers in smaller, more restricted areas of the mine.  
>   
> X-29: Fanon. There are established X-31, X-34, and X-38 landspeeders, so this one is perhaps a generation or two older than those.  
>   
> prophetesses: To make this word feminine, we English-speakers have traditionally added a suffix (- _ess_ ), but in my headcanon, the base form of the equivalent word is feminine in the Lasat language and has to be altered in order to be made masculine.  
>   
> The Lasat tales Yokheva reads to Shulma are all fanon. The story of Rolmvar the Rugged and Radiant Lalma is also mentioned in my earlier Lasat Series story, [Letter Perfect; or, The Letter under Zebby’s Pillow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14275512)—perhaps Zeb’s parents read to him from the same storybook growing up!  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh Mama—”  
  
Shulma crumpled into her mother’s arms, tears flowing anew. Yokheva held her close as she listened to Trothidd’s nervous account of all that had happened in the workroom. “A-and we can’t have that sort of thing on the floor, y’know,” he concluded. “We’ll probably have to report it to the company.”  
  
“Oh, leave that to me,” came the chill response.  
  
“Can you do it? Aw, thank you, ma’am!”  
  
“Most certainly.” Yokheva’s deep green eyes narrowed to smoldering slivers. “The company will no doubt be interested to know that some of their youth supervisors are in the habit of roughly handling kits who mean no harm.”  
  
“Er… yes… ma’am…” was all an extremely chagrined Trothidd could manage before turning tail and hurrying back to the workroom. Meanwhile, Yokheva stayed still, holding her daughter until she calmed.  
  
“Are you going to be all right, little gem?” she asked.  
  
“Yes, Mama.” Shulma looked up at her mother. “It was just kind of scary, that’s all.”  
  
“I know. And I know you never meant to hurt anyone. Now listen, you’re probably wondering why I’m here and not Papa like usual. I’ve finally gotten us a meeting with one of the shamans on Mount Straga.”  
  
Shulma’s face brightened. Finally a chance at some answers about all these sparks and visions—just what she’d been waiting and hoping for all week long! “Wow, that’s great, Mama!”  
  
“Yes! I think so, too. We’ll pick up a little supper in town and head over there. But just one thing first”—and at this her daughter cocked her head quizzically—“I think it would be a good idea for you to go back into the workroom for a moment and tell the foreman you’re sorry about what happened.”  
  
“Oh, but Mama, I really—I didn’t mean to—”  
  
“I know that, and you know that, but he doesn’t yet. Telling him so would be the honorable thing to do.”  
  
“But he was so mad—”  
  
“Yes, but he’s probably calmer now. Go ahead, it won’t take you long.”  
  
“All right, Mama,” Shulma sighed, then returned to the workroom. Order had more or less been restored. The kits had all returned to their stations and were back to their sorting work, though several of them looked up as Shulma entered, and a few whispered to each other. Gondrav, who was going down the rows to check on them as usual, turned to her, too. Novalos, however, still sat on the stool in the corner, his face to the wall as he rubbed an aching spot on his back. Shulma braced herself and went up to him.  
  
“Foreman Novalos?  
  
He eyed her warily as he turned to face her. “Yeah?”  
  
“I—I’m really sorry about—I didn’t know—I mean, I hope you’re—”  
  
“’S all right, ’s all right, kid, and I’m fine. Just be careful, okay?”  
  
“Er, yes, Foreman Novalos.”  
  
“Good. Now go with your ma. See you tomorrow.”  
  
“You too, Foreman Novalos.”  
  
He gave Shulma a gentle punch to her shoulder, and with relief on her face she went to rejoin her mother.

* * *

After picking up a quick supper at one of their favorite eateries in central Flowstone Vale, Yokheva and Shulma headed northward, deeper into the Gosrrallan Mountains, where Mount Straga—Lasan’s holy mountain and stronghold of all her spiritual power—loomed mistily and majestically. It was a long, dizzying ride as the family speeder made its way painstakingly along the switchbacked mountain roadways. Meanwhile, dusk was falling, and gray clouds began to gather over the peaks, portending a storm. Yokheva raised the canopy of the speeder.  
  
At last the sacred peak towered before them. Yokheva parked the speeder at its base, and she and her daughter boarded the rattling funicular car to the top. The clouds churned darker and darker as the car clanked upward along its ancient track, and the rain now beat the windows in a steady drizzle. Shulma pressed closer to her mother and turned her eyes from the dizzying, stormy view; her heart, both eager and nervous, was now pattering like the rain. By the time she and her mother finally alighted in the academy’s round, bare stone entrance chamber with its flickering lightning-sconces, that patter—both within and without—had grown to a pounding roar.  
  
“Good evening.”  
  
Both Yokheva and Shulma turned to look. The figure that came forward to greet them was one of the most beautiful Shulma had ever seen: a tall, stately woman, with dark-lilac fur and bluish arm-stripes, who wore a long dress and cloak that reminded Shulma of her favorite doll—the woman even wore the same kind of ring-shaped silver ornament in her hair. She inclined her head slightly to the newcomers and placed hand over fist in greeting.  
  
“Talla Jenthai, First Prime, mistress of initiates. You are welcome to the Academy of Shamans.”  
  
Yokheva returned the gesture, as did her daughter. “Yokheva Barzellati Trilasha, and this is my daughter Shulma.”  
  
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” The woman held out the palm of her hand to Yokheva, who touched it with her own. “Come this way.”  
  
Shulma and her mother followed her through torchlit stone corridors, vaulted atria, and an expansive library hall. The rain still sounded in the distance as they walked; Shulma thought she now heard the low growl of thunder as well. At last, at the far end of the library, the shaman led them through a pair of double doors into a smaller, more intimate book-lined room. At its center was a cushioned chaise or couch, surrounded by a few upholstered chairs, and a desk stood off to one side, holding not only assorted books and papers but also several pieces of different crystals and minerals, arranged in a row. A staff with a large ring at its top leaned against a bookcase in one corner. Shulma noticed that in this room she could no longer hear the storm outside but could feel all the more the nervous, rainlike pounding of her heart.  
  
“Please sit.”  
  
Shulma and her mother sat together on the couch, and Jenthai sat in a chair directly facing them. “So, young Shulma,” she began, “I understand that you might have an Ashla gift?”  
  
“Er… well… I guess…” Shulma barely looked at the shaman as she spoke. It still felt strange to her that she—a tiny, insignificant kit from Flowstone Vale—could possibly have any such thing as an Ashla gift.  
  
“That is what we shall find out tonight,” the shaman smiled. “May we begin by asking you some questions?”  
  
“Yes, Mistress Jenthai—”  
  
“ _Shaman_ Jenthai,” corrected her mother quietly.  
  
“Yes, Shaman Jenthai.”  
  
And so the questions began. First, Shaman Jenthai asked Shulma to give basic information about herself: her full name, her age, the names of family members, her general state of health. She inquired whether any other members of the family were known to have or to have had the talent of the Ashla, to which both she and her mother answered that they knew of none except Great-Great-Gran Shatha. Next came several detailed questions about Shulma’s experiences in the ore workroom during the course of the week: what exactly she had felt and seen when she had handled the different types of ore, what had happened during her ride down the mine shaft, how she had felt afterward during her bout of vision shock. Much of it was painful for Shulma to relive, but with her mother’s gentle encouragement she was able to tell all. The shaman listened attentively and sympathetically, occasionally taking notes.  
  
Once this was done, Shaman Jenthai led Shulma to the desk, where the row of crystals sat, and asked her to handle each of them. Many were the same ore types that Shulma had seen while working at the mine, so she at least knew what to expect when she touched each one—though she was glad her mother was there to steady her when she picked up the pieces of blue-purple strontium ore and greenish-bronze copper ore. One brilliantly fiery purple-red crystal of a type she had never seen before brought on not only a flurry of golden sparkles but also a strange, not entirely unpleasant fluttering sensation deep within her. She put it down quickly, unsure if what she had felt was unseemly.  
  
All the while, Shaman Jenthai observed Shulma’s reactions closely and noted them down. Occasionally she asked her to comment on what she felt or asked her to pick up the same specimen a second time. Shulma’s hands were becoming sore from all the tingling, but she did her best to comply with everything the shaman asked her to do. Her mother reminded beside her the entire time.  
  
“How are you feeling, Shulma?” asked Shaman Jenthai at last, after the girl had put down the last specimen (a spiky, dusty chunk of raw quorodium) and was rubbing her hands together to soothe them.  
  
“I’m fine, thanks,” she answered.  
  
“You’re doing very well. I must say I’m impressed at how patient you’ve been—and your mother, too.” She nodded to Yokheva, who nodded back. “Now, from what I have observed, it seems indeed likely that you have some kind of connection to the Ashla.”  
  
Shulma drew her breath in sharply, still incredulous; her mother placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. Shaman Jenthai continued.  
  
“There are many different kinds of connections that the Ashla forms with us Lasat, and in order to learn more about yours I shall have to probe your currents.” Shulma cocked her head wonderingly, and the shaman explained. “First, you will relax into a dream trance so that your currents open themselves. Then I’ll trace the Ashla through them and follow it into the deeper parts of your consciousness, so that I can learn from what it has shown you and where it has led you so far.  
  
“This should not cause you any pain, but I have to warn you: it probably will cause some of the visions and sensations you had before to return, and there is about a half-and-half chance that it may do the same with your vision shock, too. And probing procedures like this can take some time, perhaps a few hours. So I won’t proceed until both you and your mother have given us your complete permission.”  
  
Shulma looked at her mother, who turned to look at her as well. “I leave this up to you, little gem.”  
  
The girl paused for a few moments, thinking back to all she had experienced. Some of it had been a bit odd and nothing more—like the vision of the three bright figures colliding into one. But so much of it had been troubling and painful: the hurtling ride through time and space in the mine cart, the unrelenting aches and chills and dizziness of the vision shock, the accidental shocking of Foreman Novalos. And, of course, all those painful sparks—sparks everywhere, flying up from her own tiny hands, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.  
  
And if she let the shaman probe her currents, she would feel all of it again. Did she like the idea of that? No—and yet—  
  
If she really did have some sort of connection to the Ashla, surely it was worth a little pain to find as much as she could about that connection? It seemed a shame not to, and she had already come this far, after all. And now both Shaman Jenthai and her mother were looking at her, waiting for a reply.  
  
“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

So the probing procedure began. Shulma was asked to lie on the couch, with her mother sitting beside her to provide a calming touch if needed. Meanwhile, Shaman Jenthai went to fetch the staff that leaned in the corner of the room. She took one of the stone pieces from the desk—the brilliant red purple crystal, Shulma noticed—and affixed it to the pronged mounting the middle of her staff’s crowning ring-ornament. Then she stationed herself at one end of the couch, near Shulma’s head, holding the staff upright before her.  
  
“Now close your eyes. Breathe deeply, regularly.”  
  
Shulma did so. As she relaxed into the cushions surrounding her, she could hear faint, almost whispered chanting from the shaman. Then there was a sudden loud clack of wood striking the floor, followed by a strange, harmonic, thrumming _zzinggg_ that echoed through the vault of the room and seemed to vibrate behind Shulma’s own eyes. Once again she became aware of the storm sounds that continued far away outside: rumble of thunder, whisk of wind, roar of rain. All such beautiful sounds, soothing sounds, hypnotic sounds… was this the sound of the song of the Ashla itself?  
  
And then—  
  
_She was back in the gold-orange stardust-maze from the mine tunnel. But this time, instead of blazing and blinding, it glowed gently, like the sunset through the clouds—and this time she was not hurtling through at full speed but floating gently on solar zephyrs. The many-colored light was there, too, singing as it flowed around her like a stream…_  
  
_A golden spark jolted her: like those that had come from her hands on the stones, only bigger. And another and another, like Storms’ End fireworks exploding inside her consciousness. In each burst an image erupted: Novalos, Trothidd, Ninqua, Father, Mother, the boys. Burst, burst, and burst again: foremen, family, friends, others. On and on, for many minutes, in that stream of gold-orange light._  
  
_And then, out of nowhere, bigger bursts, more like lightnings than sparks: the laughing dancer, the spear-wielding fighter, the frolicking kit with smiling leaf-green eyes. Again and again, bursting in and out, for many more minutes. With each, this time, a twinge of pain—twinges she now recognized. The gold-orange firmament churned like muddy water, and white chalk lines cut through it, almost like strange lightless lightning—_  
  
_And then BURST went the biggest spark of all, into an image she had not seen before: a lovely shaman in a dress and cloak like the one her doll wore, with piercing emerald-green eyes—that really opened and closed—_  
  
BANG! As quickly as it had appeared, the image disappeared in a loud thunderclap. The universe shook as though from an explosion. Sparks and lightnings zigzagged ruthlessly through Shulma’s mind and body. Again the violent shaking, again the shooting pain. She felt hands holding her—she didn’t know whose—maybe shaking her, maybe steadying her. She heard voices conferring and exhorting...  
  
The room popped back into focus. Shulma saw her mother beside her, holding her close, and Shaman Jenthai peering down at her, but now a new face had joined them. A second shaman, elderly and very small, her white hair done up in an old-fashioned style, once again with the ring-ornament in the middle—someone Shulma knew she had seen in pictures before and at big public ceremonies in the capital like Storm Solstice…  
  
Chava with the long, hard-to-pronounce last name, the one everyone called Chava the Wise. Chief Shaman of the Academy, head of the Revered Masters, spiritual leader of all Lasan. Here, beside silly little Shulma Trilasha of Flowstone Vale. And she said:  
  
“Oh! Oh sovereign mercy, child… I’m afraid I owe you an apology!”  
  
_to be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chava: Yes, [the very same Chava](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Chava) from “Legends of the Lasat.” Her “long, hard-to-pronounce last name” is purely my own fanon. (Chava Merkavitou Behanrrocha, for those who are curious; I used it first in chapters [3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930813/chapters/49797539) and [6](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930813/chapters/50138084) of _Light of Lasan._ )


	4. Chapter 4

Startled by the appearance of this august visitor, and still achy and groggy from her mystical experience, Shulma could manage no more than a weak “huh…?”  
  
“Not to worry, child, not to worry. I’ll explain everything. You see, I was just walking along on the other side of the academy—on the terrace over by the Main Sanctum—when I started feeling your currents moving through the Ashla. Oh, I didn’t know they were _your_ currents yet, of course,” Chava reassured Shulma as she gasped in surprise. “But I could tell they were strong currents, and they moved very rapidly and very violently. Like the storm we’ve been having, you know. Anyhow, I followed them, and I wondered to myself: could this be what our ancient prophetesses meant when they spoke of the _storm-dreamer currents_ that carried them along to their visions?”  
  
Chava leaned closer to Shulma as she said this, peering at her earnestly through big, round golden-green eyes. The girl’s head was swimming even more now. She could barely follow the elder shaman’s garrulous words: what was all this about storm-dreamer currents and ancient prophetesses and visions? All of this was new to her. She could only nod weakly in response.  
  
“Well, in any case,” Chava continued, “your currents led me here, and I remembered that Talla had mentioned a prospective initiate coming today. But when I came into the room it startled you so much—even in your trance—that it upset all your currents and sent you into vision shock. And oh, child”—she placed a small, wizened hand gently on Shulma’s shoulder—“I am terribly sorry that happened, I really am. I didn’t expect it at all! Talla here must have been rather annoyed with me.” She and Shaman Jenthai turned to each other and chuckled a bit. “But that kind of sensitivity… it’s the mark of a real storm-dreamer, you know.”  
  
Again Chava peered at her earnestly, nodding. Shulma still didn’t know what the elder shaman meant by this storm-dreamer business, but some things seemed a little clearer to her now as she thought back to what she had seen and felt during the probing procedure. First there had been that large spark that had burst into the image of the pretty, doll-like shaman, which had then exploded with a bang into nothingness and left her with tremors and pain. Perhaps, somehow, one or both of those things had happened when Chava had entered the room—how or why Shulma didn’t understand, but it seemed like it could fit.  
  
But if so, didn’t that mean—  
  
Curiosity suddenly consumed her. She just _had_ to ask—it was probably presumptuous and improper and her mother would probably scold her, but she had to. She inhaled deeply.  
  
“Er—um—Mistr—Sham—er—”  
  
“ _Your Reverence,_ ” prompted her mother.  
  
“Your Reverence—er—I—”  
  
“Yes, child?”  
  
“Does this mean that I have—I mean, that I can—I mean have the, er—”  
  
“The gift of the Ashla?” Chava finished for her. “Why, yes, child, I would definitely say so!”  
  
“R-really, your R-reverence?—”  
  
“Oh yes, really! And very much so! Wouldn’t you say so, Talla?”  
  
“Indeed so,” agreed Shaman Jenthai. “Even from the first look at your currents I could see that the Ashla has already given you many visions. I caught glimpses of some of them—oh no, don’t worry, young one,” she added as she saw Shulma’s look of embarrassment. “We promise to keep everything a secret. And I couldn’t reach them all, anyway—some because they’re still raw and indistinct, others because they are hidden very deeply in your consciousness and we could only feel a faint glow from them.”  
  
“But your consciousness wouldn’t go that deep and have those hidden parts at all if the Ashla weren’t strong in you,” Chava continued. “And it will only get stronger, you know. Your visions will get stronger, your sparks will get stronger, and you’ll have to learn how to keep them in control.” She turned to face the other shaman and Yokheva. “So, if my revered colleague agrees, and if your mother agrees, you may begin an initiateship this coming cold season.”  
  
Shulma’s mouth and eyes gaped. Had she heard that right, or was this another one of those weird visions? “A-an initiateship?”  
  
“Yes, child.”  
  
“Like, _here,_ at the Academy of Shamans?”  
  
“Of course, child! Where else?”  
  
“Wow! I… er…” She shifted and turned to her mother, who smiled in confirmation. “But… well, I guess I still have to finish my mine shifts, don’t I?”  
  
“Yes, you do,” Yokheva spoke up. Shulma sighed, but her mother stroked her hair reassuringly. “I think you’ll be able to manage, little gem. There are only two weeks left. And I’m sure the foreman will understand once we explain everything to him.”  
  
“Oh, he’ll _have_ to understand!” Chava grinned widely, her gold-green eyes glinting. “Talla, go write the usual letter, so he will have no doubt whatsoever.” The other shaman inclined her head and went over to the desk. “And you, my dear girl… your currents are still trembling. Why don’t you relax here for a little while. There now, there you go,” she said, as Shulma inhaled deeply and cuddled closer to her mother. “Be sure you get a good night’s sleep tonight.”  
  
“Yes, Your Reverence…”  
  
“And let me say”—Chava patted Shulma’s shoulder heartily and repeatedly—“I am _so glad_ to have gotten the opportunity to meet you, child. One doesn’t come across the storm-dreamer talent every day, after all! Be proud of yourself!”  
  
“Er… thanks, Your Reverence.” Shulma managed a smile. Her head was still whirling, and she still had so many questions—what on Lasan _was_ a storm-dreamer, for one thing? And yet there was something about Chava’s warmth and earnestness that gave her the assurance that those questions would someday be answered. After all, she was someday going to return to this academy as a real initiate… Just thinking of it warmed and brightened her, calming the remaining tremors.  
  
And a little while later, as Shulma and her mother made their way home along the mountain thoroughfares, she noticed that the sky was clear and that stars were shining.

* * *

“Hmm,” grunted Novalos, his brow knit as he perused the letter the long-braided, lilac-furred girl-kit had just handed him. “Very interesting. Guess that explains a few things.”  
  
“Er… y-yes, Foreman Novalos.” The kit shuffled her feet, and her toes twitched nervously.  
  
“But don’t let it go to your head. You still gotta do your work.”  
  
“Of—of course, Foreman Novalos!”  
  
“Good. I’m countin’ on ya.” He smiled toothily and gave her a small punch in the shoulder. “Now get your gear on and get to work.”  
  
“Yes, Foreman Novalos.” Shulma smiled back, sighing with relief. She ran to suit up, then headed to her usual station in the workroom, where Ninqua was calling and waving to her.  
  
 _to be concluded_


	5. Epilogue

_Two seasons later_  
  
It was early in Lasan’s cold season. Crisp noonday sunlight illumined the slopes of Mount Straga, glinting on the domes, spires, and jewel-glass windows of the Royal Lasat Academy of Shamans. The mood was festive within, and today all the shamans of the academy—from the Consistory of Revered Masters, to the learned shamans of the first and second degrees, to the newest initiates—were gathered in the central sanctum in honor of an auspicious occasion.  
  
The lightning torches at the front and back of the room were lit. Festoons of white seerflowers adorned the walls and arches, tinged jewel-like colors by the light from the windows. At the front of the sanctum—which faced southward, toward the noonday sun—sat the eight Revered Masters in an arc, their Ashla staves and chalking sticks beside them; a small pile of embroidered cushions sat at the center of their arc. The other shamans sat facing them on the east side of the room. Across from them, in the sanctum’s western half, sat a varied group of townspeople, young and old, including several miners in the attire of their trade. A few toward the front of the room wore foremen’s patches; beside one of these, a tall, stern-faced male with lilac fur, were two adolescent males of a similar color who were also clad in miners’ attire. An adolescent girl-kit with purple-blue fur carried a basket of seerflower blooms to the front of the room and scattered them around and over the cushions, then took her own place along the guests on the western side.  
  
At this point the High Shaman of the Consistory—Chava Merkavitou Behanrrocha, known as Chava the Wise—rose from her seat. Golden sparks flew upward as she struck her staff with an echoing clack on the stone floor. At this signal the seven other Revered Masters rose also, as did the assembled guests, and Chava spoke in a clear voice:  
  
“Let the postulant be brought in.”  
  
All eyes in the room now turned to the four figures that stood and came forward. A bespectacled adult female in a colorful dress, an older female with long silvery hair, and a very elderly female walking with a cane escorted a pretty girl-kit in a simple white dress. The girl had purple-black hair that was done up in twists at the sides but flowed long down her back, and hints of wine-colored stripes were just beginning to be visible on her lithe lilac arms. As they approached the Masters at the front of the room, the girl knelt on the cushions with head bowed, the three others standing behind her. Then Chava addressed the assembly with hand upraised.  
  
“Honor, greeting, and brightness to all who have come.”  
  
“To you honor, greeting, and brightness,” came the response—mainly from the shamans’ side of the room, though a few on the other side joined in tentatively.  
Chava gestured to them to be seated, and continued. “Finding the spark of the Ashla in the heart of youth is like finding a precious gem in a cave, or the growing season’s first bloom in the valley, or the first star in the nighttime sky. We have among us a new gem, a new flower, a new star.” With these words she gestured to the girl kneeling on the cushions, who inclined her head deeper. “Let us rejoice to welcome her, just as that cave or that valley or that sky rejoices.”  
  
Next she addressed the three women who had brought the girl in. “You, her foremothers, the ones through whom the sacred spark has come down to her: do you give permission for these sacred rites to be performed?”  
  
“We do,” came the reply from all three.  
  
Chava and the shamans on either side of her—one tall and graceful, the other large and stout—inclined their heads and saluted hand over fist, a gesture the three foremothers returned. The tall, graceful shaman handed them her chalking stick, and each of them used it to trace a monogram glyph on the floor beside the cushions before taking their places in the front row of the assembly.  
  
“And now,” Chava announced, “let our light rise to greet this new light.”  
  
At this, she nodded to Shaman Jenthai, who took up her chalking stick. With it she drew an elaborate pattern of flamelike or wavelike shapes on the floor, encircling the cushions where the long-haired girl knelt and the flowers strewn around them. Two of the shamans seated on the east side of the room joined her with their own chalking sticks, and the three of them began tracing long lines on the floor that radiated in all directions from the edge of the circling pattern.  
  
Once this was done, Chava rose and took up her Ashla staff; the other Masters did the same, as did the first two rows of shamans seated on the east side of the room. Simultaneously they struck the ends of their staves on floor, softly but deliberately. The focusing stones in the middle of each staff began to glow, and the glow moved down the staves and along the chalk lines on the floor like water through riverbeds, until it illumined the corona of flame-shapes surrounding the girl. A resonant, musical _zing_ ing sound filled the room. Chava raised one hand aloft as she declaimed this prayer:  
  
“Sovereign Ashla of all being, spirit beyond all spirits: this young maiden comes before you this day to be initiated into your service. The fiery sparks within her have cried out to you; bind her to you in love.”  
  
As she spoke, the glow along the chalk lines brightened steadily. The girl kneeling on the cushions seemed to feel the change; she shifted and shuddered slightly but kept her head bowed. Chava continued.  
  
“As she begins her study of your ways, let your eight strengths be near to strengthen her; let your hidden and revealed brightnesses shine forth to illumine her. May she go from wisdom to wisdom, growing joyfully in your knowledge, that she may be all her life long a light to all Lasan and a blessing to all Lasat.”  
  
The chalk lines now glowed bright golden-white. Chava raised her hand and her staff high into the air and called out:  
  
“And now, O sacred lightning, fill her, hallow her, bear witness!”  
  
As one, she and the other seven Revered Masters struck their staves on the ground, conjuring dancing golden lightning along their lengths, then thrust them forward toward the young postulant. The lightnings flared forth to join in a blazing fireball above her, then spread into a luminous column that surrounded her, following the outlines of the chalked flame-circle. Longer and longer, brighter and brighter, closer and closer to her it blazed; those assembled shielded their eyes. Through it all the thrumming _zing_ still sounded, growing ever louder, ever higher—  
  
_—and Shulma on her cushion felt ecstacy course through her along with the light and the sparks and the energy, and shivered and fell—for oh, in that moment was she not the strontium ore from which the Ashla’s own hand drew sparks?—_  
  
Just then the room came back to focus. The column of lightning was gone, the staves and chalk lines at rest; all was as it was before. Pairs of gentle hands steadied her and raised her and placed the shamanic ring-medallion in her hair, directly above her forehead. And once more Chava’s voice rang out:  
  
“Rise now in the splendor and favor of the Ashla: ai Shulma ai Vizuli kh’se’-Yokheva-ghe’ Trilasha, initiate of the sacred light, shaman of Lasan!”  
  
_the end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lilac-furred miner and the two boys with him are, of course, Shulma’s father, Ormgar Trilasha; and her two brothers, Chornogar and Chornozod Trilasha (who are also all my OCs).  
>   
> The three women accompanying Shulma are her mother, Yokheva Barzellati Trilasha; her maternal grandmother, Magryth Ashmallak Barzellati; and her maternal-maternal great grandmother, Vizuli Dzenkachi Ashmallak (who would be the daughter of the great-great grandmother Shatha mentioned earlier). The names Ashmallak and Barzellati are both based on Hebrew words for metals: _hashmal_ ‘electrum’ (a gold-silver alloy) and _barzel_ ‘iron’.  
>   
> The two shamans on either side of Chava are Talla Jenthai, from the previous chapter (the “tall and graceful” one) and Memirra Movshati (the “large and stout” one), who first appeared as part of Shulma’s first-degree committee in [Light of Lasan chapter 3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930813/chapters/49797539).  
>   
> Again, Chava’s full name is my own fanon.  
>   
> ai Shulma ai Vizuli kh’se’-Yokheva-ghe’ Trilasha: The full shamanic form of Shulma’s name (cf. “ai Garazeb ai Avishai kh’sa’-Nerezeb-ga’ Orrelios” in [Light of Lasan chapter 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20930813/chapters/49760483)). This story constitutes the first appearance of Shulma’s middle name, Vizuli, which is a combination of the first two letters of my own middle name with the Vodou deity [Erzulie](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erzulie).


End file.
